BLIND: A Mastermind Novel Read Online Free
Author: Lydia Michaels
That should be enough. The pressure to find a mate had spun out of control and she needed to find level ground, find peace with her independence.
Ditching her list of tallying qualities for Mr. Nonexistent, she opened up a blank document and placed her faith in the cathartic art of writing. She’d always advised her students to journal when they needed clarity, so why not take a bit of her own advice?
I’m thirty and I seem to be the last single female standing, strange that this tends to bother my married friends more than me. Tonight, a friend told me my standards for Mr. Right were too high, but how could that be? Any woman staring into the endless abyss of disappointing blind dates would surely sympathize with how frustrating single and thirty can be. Nobody gets everything they want in this world, but I’ve seen some get damn close, so why should we—the single and thirty—have to drop our expectations?
My heart will always pinch at the sight of an older couple holding hands or a man smiling at his wife when she doesn’t know he’s watching. There are those frozen moments in time when I observe couples laughing, but can’t hear their laughter. Their happiness is startling and beautiful no matter how many times I see it. I have no idea what that sort of belonging feels like and I crave it, but only with a partner that truly appreciates me.
I’ve become invisible. I’m the woman you pass in the grocery store with a near empty cart stocked with the necessities for one. I’m the woman who always gets her car inspected ahead of time because I have nothing better to worry about. How nice it would be to take care of someone else’s needs for a change.
I make a modest living teaching middle school, support myself, and have been independent since graduating college. I’ve always been a comfortable size twelve. My hair is red and yes, I even have freckles. Does that mean I somehow don’t qualify for the spoils of love? Am I so ordinary I don’t deserve something extraordinary? The truth is, I’ve never been in love and I wonder if I’ll ever know what it feels like to be adored.
I know what it is to sleep with a man, but I’ve never spent the night with a man, never whispered in the dark, or confessed my deepest secrets and desires. I wish I knew what it felt like to truly be seen, to be adored, to feel things I’ve never felt before.
Just once I’d like to believe my presence is significant. I’m not talking about physical intimacy. I’m speaking of something greater. I want an intellectual man, someone confident and capable of listening, a man who can awaken a part of my soul no other person has touched. There must be someone out there who would cherish what I have to offer. If only I knew what it was to be adored, even if just for a moment, I might be able to release this envy weighing on my heart and appreciate the perks of being single once more.
Just once I’d like to experience that sharp jolt of anticipation, knowing ther e’ s someone waiting for me at the end of the day, awaiting what I’ll say next. Someone I could trust to reach parts of me I can’t find on my own. Even just a glimpse of this might suffice, one chance to feel the grass on the other side and decide for myself, which is truly greener.
Scarlet sat back and admired her words. It wasn’t a masterpiece of literature by any means, but it was definitely more than a simple list. It was a plea—a plea for single women everywhere! Or maybe just for her.
Tipping back the empty bottle of wine, she grimaced then giggled as she caught her reflection in the mirror. Her lips were stained and her cheeks were a tipsy shade of rose. Setting the bottle aside, she reread her letter, falling more and more in love with the sincerity of her words.
It was a damn good letter—the Jerry McGuire sort, except this time it was about cocks instead of jocks. She was seeking for Don Juan instead of the “kwan”. Snorting at her clever
Ditching her list of tallying qualities for Mr. Nonexistent, she opened up a blank document and placed her faith in the cathartic art of writing. She’d always advised her students to journal when they needed clarity, so why not take a bit of her own advice?
I’m thirty and I seem to be the last single female standing, strange that this tends to bother my married friends more than me. Tonight, a friend told me my standards for Mr. Right were too high, but how could that be? Any woman staring into the endless abyss of disappointing blind dates would surely sympathize with how frustrating single and thirty can be. Nobody gets everything they want in this world, but I’ve seen some get damn close, so why should we—the single and thirty—have to drop our expectations?
My heart will always pinch at the sight of an older couple holding hands or a man smiling at his wife when she doesn’t know he’s watching. There are those frozen moments in time when I observe couples laughing, but can’t hear their laughter. Their happiness is startling and beautiful no matter how many times I see it. I have no idea what that sort of belonging feels like and I crave it, but only with a partner that truly appreciates me.
I’ve become invisible. I’m the woman you pass in the grocery store with a near empty cart stocked with the necessities for one. I’m the woman who always gets her car inspected ahead of time because I have nothing better to worry about. How nice it would be to take care of someone else’s needs for a change.
I make a modest living teaching middle school, support myself, and have been independent since graduating college. I’ve always been a comfortable size twelve. My hair is red and yes, I even have freckles. Does that mean I somehow don’t qualify for the spoils of love? Am I so ordinary I don’t deserve something extraordinary? The truth is, I’ve never been in love and I wonder if I’ll ever know what it feels like to be adored.
I know what it is to sleep with a man, but I’ve never spent the night with a man, never whispered in the dark, or confessed my deepest secrets and desires. I wish I knew what it felt like to truly be seen, to be adored, to feel things I’ve never felt before.
Just once I’d like to believe my presence is significant. I’m not talking about physical intimacy. I’m speaking of something greater. I want an intellectual man, someone confident and capable of listening, a man who can awaken a part of my soul no other person has touched. There must be someone out there who would cherish what I have to offer. If only I knew what it was to be adored, even if just for a moment, I might be able to release this envy weighing on my heart and appreciate the perks of being single once more.
Just once I’d like to experience that sharp jolt of anticipation, knowing ther e’ s someone waiting for me at the end of the day, awaiting what I’ll say next. Someone I could trust to reach parts of me I can’t find on my own. Even just a glimpse of this might suffice, one chance to feel the grass on the other side and decide for myself, which is truly greener.
Scarlet sat back and admired her words. It wasn’t a masterpiece of literature by any means, but it was definitely more than a simple list. It was a plea—a plea for single women everywhere! Or maybe just for her.
Tipping back the empty bottle of wine, she grimaced then giggled as she caught her reflection in the mirror. Her lips were stained and her cheeks were a tipsy shade of rose. Setting the bottle aside, she reread her letter, falling more and more in love with the sincerity of her words.
It was a damn good letter—the Jerry McGuire sort, except this time it was about cocks instead of jocks. She was seeking for Don Juan instead of the “kwan”. Snorting at her clever
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